


bleeding out old wounds.

by ShybutMighty (SoHotYouCantDeny)



Series: burning down family portraits. [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Abandonment, Depictions of Medical Torture, Gaster Blaster AU, Gen, Have to have read the blog to understand at all, Minor Self Harm, Recovery, kind of...?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 14:43:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8493865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoHotYouCantDeny/pseuds/ShybutMighty
Summary: You don't know any of these people, so you wait, at the door, for faces that might never come.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [askgasterfamily](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=askgasterfamily).



> The bit with dreamscape Sans inspired me a whole lot, so I decided having a go at the bittersweet farm ending, which is definitely a whole lot more bitter in my interpretation. I also wanted to do something nice for Sam, since it seems they've a lot on their plate at the moment. Hope you like it :)

 

* * *

 

  _‘I’m sorry’_

 

You’re being hugged, pulled in a soft embrace as two bony arms wrap around you, pressing your skull against a warm belly that hums with a familiar buzz as the magic pushes back. A hand moves up and down your spine in a calming pattern, lingering between the shoulder blades, palming the bone with deep affection.

 

You hum, contented, nuzzle deeper into the touch and sigh. You’re sleepy, head feeling heavy from your quick nap, but not any more rested. If anything, you’re more tired.  

 

He’s shaking, your father, his breath hitching. You further crack open an eye to look up at him, see him cry in that choked down manner you’ve only ever seen him cry before, chest shuddering as he sucks in air through his nasal cavity, releases it again in a muted sob. He strokes your head, pets the spikes that adorn the bone, clanks a few kisses to your forehead. When he sees you staring, his face only twists up further.

 

“I’m sorry.” He croaks out. His voice is scratchy and broken, falling away at certain parts as he forces out the syllables. It’s scary, but soothing, the sound of your father’s voice. “I love you.”

 

 _‘I love you too’_ You sign back to him, not feeling like speaking, but you have to break the hug for him to see. His cheeks are smiling, but he’s only crying harder now, eye sockets scrunching up further in pain.

 

 _‘This is for the best. You’ll be happy here. Safe.’_ He tells you. You nod, bump your forehead against his chest again, stare ahead unseeing as you watch his uneven breathing, feel his hands move up and down to pet you, to reassure you. You blink sluggishly.

 

“Okay.” Your own voice is muffled against the fabric of his sweater, but your father grips you tighter, holds you for a very long time after. You don’t know what you’re agreeing to.

 

 

 

Your father leaves you.

 

  

 

* * *

    

 

 

> _You’re in a room. The walls are blank, shaking, advancing in upon you, and when you turn to face ‘em, they jump, like a record skipping, only to close in again when you turn around again. The cold from the tiled floor bites into your feet as you push yourself up to stand, stretch out your tail far behind you, like a thick branch, as you stumble, seeking out your center of gravity. You waver slightly as you take your first step. It’s like gravity had increased upon you, like you’re stranded on a different planet, as you struggle to keep yourself upright. But no, you’re stuck in this room, that only feels to get smaller and smaller the more you focus on the surroundings. A single sickly yellow light flickers above you, sizzling slightly, hanging like a constant threat to snap, and leave you in darkness. It’s unsettling._
> 
> _You wrap your hands around yourself, hug your chest._
> 
> _You’re alone, but you’re wrong. There's somebody there with you, standing like a statue in the middle of the room. He’s looking at you, eyes void, half-lidded and so dark, you’re worried for the black to spill like waterfalls if he were to tip his head forward slightly. But he’s not moving, unlike the walls. Somehow you find the sight even more unnerving._
> 
> _You wave. He doesn’t answer._
> 
> _You feel uncomfortable._

* * *

  

“Oh, what ever are we supposed to do with you?” Castellar asks, pondering over you as she looks you over, tutting softly under her breath as she sees the mud covering your bones. She brings down a hand and you press you skull against it, feel her caringly thumb the ridges of your maw, softly cupping your face in both boney hands. She tips it up to get a better look, handles your face around a bit and snorts. You give a warm thrill in return. Her eyes widen slightly as the bones click loose, moving your jaw separately to carry the sound, but you quickly snap them shut when you notice her expression.

 

_oh._

 

But suddenly, grandpa Semi laughs, startling you as you whip your head around to stare at him, rattling your frame slightly. It's embarrassing, and you blush, taking a step back through the doorpost as you suddenly feel shy. You duck your head down low, lower, feebly try to hide your flushed face, feel the other children stares warm the back of your skull and grandpa Semi’s amused grin grows wider. Castellar herself is chuckling as well, bringing a hand up to cover her smile. Her eyes wrinkle gently as she bends down to take care of you, ushering your back into the kitchen.

 

It’s strange, you come to realize, how much like your father she is as she starts towelling you off, and you let her, quietly eyeing her as she’s busies herself with scrubbing the dirt from between your fingers and clawed feet, dipping between the joints, mindful not to twist your limbs around too far as she lifts them off the ground. Her movements, like his, are warm, controlled, comforting; it’s almost, as if, they could be related.

 

 

  

* * *

  

 

 

> _You_ _open your eyes to a sunless sky, hear a bird call out above you. You’re not able to see it circle around you, but you know it’s there, waiting for you to crumble so it could scavenge the remains, laughing in coughing caws as you look up, try to spot it flying by. You're on a boat, swaying gently from side to side, floorboards groaning in a tired complain as you move. You grip the side of the boat, dig your claws in deep, causing small splinters of paint to flack off and float down into the waters. You look around –_
> 
> _– and spot him again,_  Sans. _This time h_ _e's fishing, instead of just standing there, rod held between two hands, holding on with a loose grip as he moves along the current. His head’s turned downward, away from you, watching the water as it sloshes gently against the side of the boat, splashes onto the deck. You suppose he’s searching, as he keeps staring down, but you don’t know what for. Even if you wanted to ask, you can't, as he stubbornly keeps looking away from you, refusing to acknowledge your presence._
> 
> _As the darkness continues creeping, swallowing whole trees in its wake, you’d almost overlooked, but that pungent smell's so potent, it’s impossible to ignore once noticed. It's Doctor. He’s standing beside him, Sans, resting a hand upon his shoulder, squeezing with a rigid grip, and you hear the bone moan brokenly under the pressure, until finally, it snaps, and his collarbone caves in._
> 
> _You flinch back hard, find your hands shoot up immediately to pet down your bones, carefully pressing down upon your shoulder as if to check if it’s all still there, and it is, but you're unable to suppress a startled yelp when his head snaps towards you, focuses in upon you. He’s haunting, the mask that is his face stretching apart further and further, and you’re afraid for it to tear as it forms into a wicked smile, toothless, and his eyes start leaking._
> 
> Don’t come near me _, you struggle to shout as he moves towards you, weird anthropomorphic body bending around Sans' form as if the light itself can’t touch him, motion fluid and smooth, like he’s not walking but gliding instead. The boat is leaking, panic rising, thick tar whelming up between the floorboards and sticking to your feet, dusty fingers worming their way through the hollow of your bones and holding you down. You hear their old ghosts cry, pleading, taste the salt of their ashes on your tongue as they fill the air. Before you know it, he’s standing before you, and you’re being pushed in._

* * *

  

Vani’s teasing Wingdings. You hear him whisper joking words that turn to half-hearted taunts, see him jab a finger in his side and laugh as he’s being pushed back. Wingdings’ gestures are large and wild, growing larger, more erratic as time moves on, while he spits back hateful words and powerful curses too large for his age. But there’s the beginnings of frustrated tears brimming his sockets, a recognizable helplessness, and you feel a cold anger boil up into your stomach when you see.

 

You jump to action, not even thinking twice, throw yourself between the two and growl deep and lowly at Wingdings’ brother, watch the fear flicker in his orange eye lights as they move down towards you, to your exposed teeth, and feel a sense of satisfaction wash over you as he stumbles back. You laugh, take another taunting step forward yourself, let your own single eye flash threateningly as you twist your head around to glare, aim to intimidate. You feel big, even if you’re down low, howling a laugh as the kid steps back and falls. His teeth are clenched, bones rattling loudly, but he’s crying, eyes shimmering and his face is growing red. A small hiccup breaks loose from behind his clattering teeth, and there’s no time for your own smile to falter, for the satisfaction to sour, before Wingdings stands before you

 

 _‘Bad bad bad’_ He’s signing, whacks you across the nose for misbehaving and you whimper. You step back, subconsciously try to make yourself smaller as you curl up, avert your eyes from his trembling glare, and rub a claw across your nose. It stings.

 

No, you never liked being bad.

 

 

 

* * *

  

 

 

> _You’re in the purple room, the bettering room, and Sans’ sitting in front of you. His back’s turned towards you, sitting cross-legged, with his hand picking_ – with normal fingers – _at his right kneecap, blunt digits scraping across the bone._
> 
> _“Don’t do that.” You tell him. The movement stills, only for a second, before resuming again. You whimper, wring your hands together nervously, feel distressed as that awful scraping noise returns to fill the air between you, even louder this time, to stab at your skull, high scratching pitch peppered throughout that leaves your head ringing long after._
> 
> _“Leave me alone.” He says._
> 
> _He bends forward, spine curving to form a sickled moon, curls his hand further around the bone and starts pulling. In your imagination, you see it pop right off, the kneecap flipping through the air like a tossed coin, before disappearing somewhere between the couch cushions. You shudder at the thought, feel the anxiety push at your chest uncomfortably._
> 
> _“Please, you’ll hurt yourself.”_
> 
> _You try to take his hands away, but he throws you off before your fingers even have the chance to graze his wrist, and he twists around to snarl at you. His right eye’s blazing, flashing dangerously, familiarly, while the left remained empty, scoped clean after Doctor had taken it, only leaving behind a glass replica._
> 
> _“_ Nobody _asked for your opinion,” He spits back angrily, “you fucking hypocrite.”_
> 
> _You’re not even thinking about it as you grind your hands together._

* * *

  

Batang’s a good boy, a very good boy. You like him, you really do, and you’re sure the same goes for him as well.

 

You’re together a lot. He doesn’t mind you getting lazy or being tired, even cozies up to you when you bury yourself deep into your blankets to rest, huffing warm air into the crook of your neck when you curl up together, and it’s nice. His voice is clear, body language never contradicting, and loves to play the same simple games that you do, without the many rules constricting them, confusing you.

 

He’s familiar, comforting, smelling like bones and dried slobber, seemingly unbothered by your own copper infected scent that wafts the air like a disease, lingering like a fog behind you. He’s a pup, like you. A skeleton, _family_. You might even say... you’re brothers.

 

 

  

* * *

 

 

 

> _The_ _Doctor pets you, scratches your chin and you hold still as he moves around you, floating hands dangling from the ceiling and caressing you from below, while you stare ahead before you, unmoving._
> 
> _“Beautiful, you’re going to be so beautiful, perfect, a true masterpiece.”_
> 
> _He wraps you up, and lets you go. Twisting, dripping, black ooze spilling from his mouth as he gargles, words popping and bubbling. His face continues to twist, falling away to the floor in large chunks that splatter at they hit, tiny droplets hitting and painting whole constellations on the front of your gowns. Your breath hitches, trembling eye lights staring up at the terrifying sight as your father falls apart before you, dissolves into the air like he got soaked in acid. A puddle._
> 
> _“This time, this time, this time,”_
> 
> _He’s melting, and you’re horrified to feel him engulf you, choking and gagging as the sludge slides down your throat, tries to crawl its way upstairs again. You don’t dare move._

* * *

  

The surface is so breathtakingly beautiful, you have to stop and quieten to see. There’s no moon tonight, not even a small nick of the pale rock’s visible, and you wonder where it went, if it left with the sun, if they’re hiding together underground. You don’t know, and don’t mind it either – the sky without a moon – as you’d think it’ld be dark, but it isn’t. Stars, real stars, litter across the dark blue sky, forming blotches of light that burn brighter together, forming strokes of sparkling dust that stretches as far as the eye could see, swirling around each other like whirlpools, and you think, somehow, you’re supposed to recognize something, but don’t.

 

You faintly remember shimmering rocks, that glimmer and glisten a vibrant blue from across the ceiling, where monsters like yourself laid down your wishes. There’s the phantom feeling of holding another hand into your own, of tiny digits squeezing back before pulling away and the muted sound of excited chatter and moving hands that fail to be coherent. On the background, you hear the quiet whispers of flowers that stand tall and repeat endlessly, corrupting the messages they hold as they echo back and forth until there’s nothing left but white noise that sound throughout the caverns. It's all in the past now, though. Remains of useless clutter.

 

So you sit back, look up, and wish.

 

   

 

* * *

 

 

 

> _“GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT–”_
> 
> _Sans is screaming. Doors slam shut loud behind you, making you jump at the explosive sound as the house shakes and the ceiling starts crumbling, dried cement raining from dark clouds thick with dust as a web of tears spreads apart above you. They hail down around you, little tiny pebbles hitting you across the face as a thin layer of dust settles down inside your skull, through your sockets, as your eyes tear up. Sans doesn’t want you here, but you crawl over to him anyway. Your feet dragging behind you as you walk, hum softly._
> 
> _“STOP IT STOP IT STOP DOING THAT!”_
> 
> _He’s yelling, remains unrelenting as you drop down low, protectively curl your tail in front of you, frame shaking as you cry out yourself when his voice raises once more. His hands are clawing at his sockets, fingers plunged in deep within, like he’s trying to pull the bone apart, splitting your face in two, only to leave the twin lights of your eyes burning in the ruins of your shared mind, exposing their tattered remains. You howl at him to stop._
> 
> _“WE’RE NOT DOGS!”_
> 
> _His screams turn louder as he starts choking on the words, face turning blue as he’s left unable to breathe between the thunder of his voice and the pained wailing of the building._
> 
> _“WE’RE NOT!”_
> 
> _“WE’RE NOT!”_
> 
> _“STOP ACTING LIKE ONE!”_
> 
> _When you wake up, you don’t remember much._

 

 

* * *

 

The children are playing. Candara has strings wrapped around her fingers, and you watch in awed fascination as she twists and turns her hands around, pulls them apart in different shapes that form outlines of structures and tall buildings. The string cross zigzag from one digit to the other, tread braiding whole patterns as they loop around each other.

She’s talking, but slowly, showing her hands, and you realise she’s teaching the others how to play as well as she carefully demonstrates the motions and patiently explain the steps, going through them time and time again as the others try to mimic the movements.

It’s an interesting sight to see, and you pull yourself away from Batang to get a better view, rubbing some of the sleep from your eyes as you suppress the yawn building in the back of your throat. You observe, ghost your hands alongside the motions, make your fingers dance the necessary steps and after a while, gather the courage, and ask to join.

 

  

 

* * *

 

 

 

> _Everybody’s looking at the photos on dad’s old phone as he shows you, him and himself off to the family. They are old pictures, very old, of tiny toddlers being cute as they prance around in adorable little skirts, staring with big ol’ eye lights up at the camera lens. Everybody seems completely taken with them, the boys captured in the pictures, oh-ing and aw-ing at the appropriate times as another particularly adorable picture gets brought to attention._
> 
> _Dad’s humming. It looks like he’s glowing, grinning with pride at the praise for his sons, the white of his eye lights glowing the slightest of violet. A hand comes down to pet your snout, and you dive underneath his outstretched elbow, nestle in between the pit of his arm as you partially climb your way up on his lap._
> 
> _“My little sugar skulls,” He muses aloud, “certainly were the cutest.” He trails off at the end. There’s a nostalgic longing lingering in his eyes as he browsers through the pictures, and you watch with, side-eyeing the phone screen as your head starts pounding at the sight of the broad smiles glaring back at you. You nuzzle deeper into your father’s embrace, feel his chest expand as floating ribs faintly jab back at you through the fuzz of his grey turtleneck. He exhales._
> 
> _You remain seated in his lap as he goes through the pictures, slowly begin to feel his arms grow rigid, see the pictures get darker. The audience’s silent. He stops._
> 
> _“Such sweet boys,”_
> 
> _He’s smiling, like a true proud father, as his thumb stills above the screen. You look down, and you know, this image of you, on a purple stool._
> 
> _“and oh,” He smiles “how ever so obedient.”_

* * *

 

It’s feeding time. You’re seated at the table. Everybody else’s sitting around you, practically vibrating with impatient anticipation, and you look down to stare at your own bowl. You’re having porridge tonight.

 

When food’s finally served, nobody wastes time digging in, shoving the grub down their throats in record speed, arm wrapped defensively around their plates to shield from any possible thieving siblings, focussed solely on its content. You scarf down a few mouthfuls yourself before your plate’s already empty, lick the surface clean and attentively sniff if you spilled any. You’re shoved back roughly as your nose wanders to your neighbours’ plates, and you huff, wipe a sleeve ‘cross your muzzle while you keep eyeing the food.

 

A tail brushes past your shin and you still. _Batang_.

 

He’s stationed beneath, pacing under the table, being fed table scrap as he visits each set of legs sticking out from underneath the tablecloth to beg. Unlike you, Batang’s not allowed a seat at the table. Castellar’d explained once, his position as the family pet; how he’s a dog, animal in nature, even _if_ the spell cast on his bones means he’s just as much a monster as any other of her children. She’d held you firmly when she’d told you this, forcing you to make eye contact. ‘S why you still remember.

 

But it didn’t matter. You still don’t understand why you’d be any different, anyway.

 

  

 

* * *

   

 

 

> _“Why?” Sans moans weakly from his place in the room, folding in on himself as light falls down the ceiling, illuminating the top of his skull “Why do this to me? Why bring me back if he’s only just gonna throw me away again?”_
> 
> _He throws a hand to the side as he speaks, grips his chest with the other. His face’s scrunched up like he’s in pain, anguish rooted deep within, words dripping like he’s ill from speaking._
> 
> _“It doesn’t make sense.”_
> 
> _The ruins fall, water rising, dark, pouring in from broken pipes that’ve rusted a brilliant orange, as the rubble drifts with the current, collects at the epicenter._
> 
> _“God, ‘t hurts so much.”_
> 
> _You watch in sympathy, as Sans continues to fist the front of his shirt, presses his head to the ground, and whimpers._

 

* * *

 

You’re running. There's trees everywhere, warping around you as you sprint across the pastures, appearance washed out slightly when you watch them in the distance. They fall behind you to disappear, reappearing again later, as if you’re running in circles, looping around the barn in extacy.

 

Tall grass pets you from below, tickling your nose as the wind flies past, brushes the blades down flat against the ground, and jump over the different patches with ease as they attempt to obscure your path. Adrenaline burns hot through your veins, soul beating loudly in your chest. You kick the ground away from underneath you, feel your paws dig in deep into the cool soil, soft and firm, when you fall, roll and leap. The dirt sticks to you like a cloak, made of wonderful new smells and flavours, fresh and liberating, as you deliberately bury yourself deeper into the waving grass, watch the clouds move past with a taken admiration.

 

It’s exhilarating.

 

 

  

* * *

   

 

 

> _"Oh_ , _you poor creature,” The Doctor coos to you, almost lovingly “so revolting, even your own father disowned you.”_
> 
> _He laughs as you furiously shake your head, skitter away from him, low rumble sounding in a warning as he stalks forward, strides long and powerful, strong and prowling._
> 
> _“That’s not true.” You tell him off, growl resonating deep from within your chest “You’re lying. Dad, he– ”_ He loves me _, you want to say,_ he would never leave me _. But he did. Dad’s not here, while you still are. He left you, and if that’s not the textbook definition of abandonment, then what is?_
> 
> _The Doctor releases another breathy laugh, steel eyes regarding you coldly from above._
> 
> _“Oh? Is that so?” He purrs, bending down, brushes his phalanges down your neck, trailing along the soft red leather of your collar, plucks at it softly with his fingers “Then tell me, my dear boy,” The hand still, hooks a finger ‘round the collar, pulls 'til you're suffocating “what happened?”_
> 
> _There’s no amusement in his voice as he asks._

* * *

 

You’re having an argument with Veteran, a small disagreement that’s blown up over the course of a few days, until finally coming down to petty name-calling and hurtful comments. Some of the words aimed your way are painful to swallow, while others completely fly over your head, confusing you. But you manage, throw a few back just as hard and feel it ease your soul to see that smug expression falter slightly each time, knowing your own angry comments didn’t leave him as unaffected as he likes to pretends they do.

 

But as you’re having your little fall out, the other children look at you strangely. It’s irritating, making you more self-conscious than you already are, and you want to tell them to mind their own goddamn business instead of hovering around yours. 

 

So you growl at them to stop, but they only take back a step, before resuming their staring.

 

 

  

* * *

    

 

 

> _There’s crying. It’s a new but also very old noise, a high wailing screech punctuated with large breaths after each burst of sound, desperate in nature as it cries into the otherwise oddly quiet air._
> 
> _The source of the noise isn’t hard to pinpoint, as a crib stands gently rocking back and forth in the middle of the bright clear room , the sight almost painful to take in with all the lights fiercely glaring down at it. There’re no walls, but glass windows supporting the building, stretched far and framed in white. It’s bare, clean, safe form a mobile spinning from the ceiling, showcasing a variety of different zoo animals that twirl around each other in a little dance._
> 
> _You approach the crib, wailing growing louder with each sounding step, stand on your tippy-toes, grip the railing, look and–_
> 
> _It– it’s a baby. You step back._
> 
> _Sans looks down with you, tilts his weight over the railing, lifting his feet off the ground a tad. He scoffs a snort, stiff smile edging further up into a grin, barks out another coughing laugh. He looks amused at your own frightened expression._
> 
> _“Have you ever seen anything more repulsive?” He says, and you freeze. There’s a slight mirth to his voice, never taking his eyes off the squirming infant that’s making grabby hands back up at him, babbling nonsense into the empty air while blowing small spit bubbles that collect like foam in the corners of its mouth and trail down its chin to soak into the collar of its onesie. He sticks his finger down in the crib, wiggles it around a bit, and the baby latches on, drawing the hand in further with a surprising grip before sticking the tip into its mouth, starts gnawing. Sans laughs. A tiny tail wags back happily from underneath the blankets._
> 
> _“Absolutely disgusting.” He breathes._
> 
> _You shiver._

* * *

 

You try doing people things, but it’s not working like it’s supposed to. Your hands are not as flexible, your balance off put, spine crooked and forever fixed in a hunched forward position. The simple act of picking things up is absurdly difficult, made challenging by the large curling claws sprouting from your fingertips and the long length of the digits. There’s no way for you to hold a spoon without you feeling like a huge imbecile, clumsy fingers impossible to direct and grab the wooden utensils with. It’s simply infuriating as you struggle through the act, angry tears obscuring your vision as the frustration builds, starts burning.

 

Castellar tries helping, knitting you gloves, adjusting your clothes so they fit around the growths better, stitching and re-stitching the seams. When you’re at the dinner table, she’ll seat herself beside you, wrap her hands around yours to guide you through the motions, whispering soft encouragements as she helps you feed like you’re still some kinda baby bones.

 

But you’re not, you’re an adult, with an age high in the double digits and a certificate signed to your name, a PH something-something. You’re supposed to be capable and independent, knowledgeable, _smart_. But instead you’re here, being spoon-fed by your own freaking nanny like a child, _a dog_ , and you don’t even notice it half the time, jumbled mind too scrambled for anything to ever strike you as odd. And it’s embarrassing, it's so _fucking **embarrassing**_.

 

You throw her off, huddle somewhere dark to hide, to block out all the shame. Yell.

 

When you’re alone, you practice.

 

 

  

* * *

 

 

 

> _You're not a dog. You're not a dog. You're_   _not_   _a_ _dog. So, stop it. Don't_. please _. Stop bein so **desperate**._
> 
> _You’re trembling, bones rattling, large sockets looking up at the figure before you, as a set of lopsided eyes stare back at you. You hesitate, breath shuddering, choke a laugh as you divert your eyes to the ground, shakily look up again, only to instantly turn away when those dim eye lights focus in upon you._
> 
> _You bend your head down low, tilt it to your right slightly. There’s a low pitched keening noise sounding from within your throat and you cut it off the moment you notice, chew softly on one of your abused knuckles, wince as the bruised bone throbs with an old hurt._
> 
> _He’s still standing there, regarding you with a cold disdain shockingly unfamiliar as he quietly stares down upon you, comforting warmth drained from his usual radiance and leaving behind an unfamiliar detachment that’s frightening to witness on that youthful face. You need, you need–_
> 
> _You decide, hesitate, crawl over, movements’ drawn out and hesitant. You reach out, watch intensely, feel your own quivering hand tremble uncontrollably in your uncertainty as you call out feebly, pathetically hopeful. “B–bro,”_
> 
> _Repulsion. Instantly, his scowl deepens, mouth curling up further with a growing sense of abhorrence, jerks away from your outstretched hand like the touch’s poison incarnate. It’s quiet, calm. You listen, strain to hear._
> 
> _“Disgusting.”_
> 
> _You grief._

* * *

 

Little Aster watches you. He watches you a lot. It’s unnerving and you don’t like it.

 

When you’re sleeping, wrapped up warm and protected in your fort of blankets, he stands to the side, crouched down, unblinking eyes never leaving you as you curl up further into yourself, drag your legs up to your chest. When he opens his mouth, the words are silent, and you frown. He makes you nervous.

 

Why does that kid keep following you?

 

 

  

* * *

 

 

 

> _You’re in the purple room, and it’s time._
> 
> _Already you’re on the table, arms and legs strapped down to your side on the harsh and unforgiving metal, position forcefully twisting the limbs about as you move. You tug at the restrains, growing panic making your throat swell up, start to salivate, as the leather digs in between the spaces of your joints and scuffs the bone._
> 
> _You tug again, pull growing more desperate with every –_ tuk– _as the leather’s pulled taut, friction creating a building heat that burns into delicate bone as the leather cuffs cut deeper,_ deeper _, draw marrow. The metal clasps click softly as you move._
> 
> _The room is dark, ominous, the light of the purple bulbs weak and struggling. The equipment besides you reflects back bright and polished, hovering around you like mechanical tentacles that bend and twist themselves to tightly hug your frame, and you catch the shadow of your own flashing eye glaring back at you in your peripheral vision._
> 
> _A footstep, flat soles with muted heals, walk up to you calmly. You still, hold your breath instinctively as the figure looms forward, looks down upon you with a bored gaze. His stare’s vacant, piercing eyes glazed over, holding a worn down quality to them as he looks you over, inspecting your bones in a routine weighted down heavily with repetition. He knows, just as much as you, what’s to come next._
> 
> _“please no, please, please don’t,” You moan to him, tears whelming up uselessly in your surrender, shaking your head from side to side as his many hands come down upon you. They circle you, stroking, applying a gentle pressure to hoax you down and secure you. You fall back, watch him operate with a dreadful anticipation, cry out as he rip off the Band-Aid. It’s quick, the sound’s fuelled more with the stacking tension of his presence rather than any real pain, as the Band-Aid comes off. It doesn’t even sting, leaves behind no mark. Instead it exposes the ugly wound below, inflamed and pulsing faintly, crack etched deep within the bone. It’s still dusting, fine powder crumbling, as scar tissue continues building at the edges, pushes it apart._
> 
> _A finger digs in and you scream, start trashing as you throw your body against the table, sharp pain shooting through your head as they push their way inside. He holds you down, ignores your writhing as he shifts his weight upon you, presses down upon your throat and blocks off the airflow, leaving you gasping in your struggle._
> 
> _You panic, don’t notice the needle before it’s already too late, plunged in right between the eyes, and the content, bright red and glowing, ‘s being injected. Instantly, white hot magma tears through your sockets, pours down your teeth like lava, and you’re left gasping, skull about to burst and chest heaving fast, DT showering down upon you in a firestorm of ashes while it burns. And it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, oh god it hurts **so much** –_
> 
> _If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s trying to kill you._

* * *

 

You’ve snuck downstairs. The walls are tall and impressive, large off white stones faded and decaying. You trail a hand across the stone as you walk through the catacombs, fingers scraping softly across the grainy surface.

 

It’s dark, but you adjust, eye lights growing dim to accommodate to the low stimuli. The air’s stale, dirt ground damp and cold while some gravel cuts into your soles. The whole scale of the building’s quite impressive once you contrast it to the small farm located above, massive hallways stretching on seemingly forever, decorated by an endless supply of hollowed out windows that blow dead empty air as you stick your face in them, inspect each and every one of them.

 

You absentmindedly role the band fastened around your wrist between two fingers, tug softly. Something’s nagging at you in the back head as you continue sauntering through the hallways, considering each window. They’re more akin to chambers, you find yourself thinking as you scrutinize each hole, sniff at the dirt. If you’d want, you could crawl right up inside, curl up for a quick nap and leave enough breathing space to move about comfortably. But the prospect makes you uneasy, so you don’t. It's too chilly anyway.

 

As you rout around the dirt a bit, you spot something different, something interesting. It’s difficult to make out in that constant state of limbo that’s fallen upon the place, bordering somewhere between the dull gloom of dusk and misty night, as you push your way inside, drag a muzzle across the surface and dig around a bit further. You huff, hot air blowing and picking up whole clouds of dust, send them flying, and–

 

There. A bone.

 

–you look behind, see; 

 

 _Multiple_ bones.

 

 

 

You’re howling until grandpa’s there to save you.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

> _There’s Aster, and there’s Doctor. They’re playing ball together, passing the gleaming red toy from one to the other in perfect union, moving in sync while they snatch it out the air with astounding ease while further refraining from moving. Their faces are blank, somber, a strange submission to the repetition of the motion as they continue playing, silently. Occasionally, the muted slap of bones against rubber blows through the fields as a ball’s passed back, gets caught with little effort before being thrown back again, repeating its cycle, figures slowly edging closer._
> 
> _You watch, feel your hands grow sweaty, squeeze them anxiously against your chest, push down. You breathe in, hold, release, gather the tension gathered in your chest and swallow it down. Your tail thumps restlessly against the floor, hear it pet the dirt, drowning out the sound. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. A high whistle drags through the pasture, wind combing the grass. You blink, forcefully drag out sallow breaths, fold inward._
> 
> _They’re looking at you, and you feel their gaze burning, conjoined hands held together tightly as they sign, say something completely different. You whimper at the sound of their mutilated voices as they speak, echoing over into one another._
> 
> _“It’s only a matter of time.”_
> 
> _no. please._
> 
>  
> 
> _“We’re_ inevitable _.”_
> 
>  
> 
>  

 

* * *

 

You bite Aster. Honestly, it wasn’t your intention.

  

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

> _Sans is screaming. Hands shoot up to grab you, dig into your shoulders as you’re being shaken about, head thrown from side to side, lolling ariound heavily. He looks angry, eyes lights small pinpricks hot with scalding fire, turns sideways and up with a tinge of desperation, settles. It shifts again as you give in into the violence, of the action, of the words, let it wash over from a creek to a river, turn a deaf ear._
> 
> _There’s a weird kind of serenity, a silence, to giving up. Close your eyes. Like this, you could sleep._
> 
> _But–_
> 
> _“STOP! JUST STOP!”_
> 
> _–_ he _won’t let you. He won’t_ **ever** _let you._
> 
> _“Don’t do this.” He tells you, even as those eyes cast down, turn to something ugly. You know, he’s_ determined _._
> 
> _His head hits the counter before you know it, shatters to a million pieces like a porcelain doll. He doesn't even twitch._
> 
>  
> 
> _You've always been fragile._

 

* * *

 

“NO _–_ ” _NO, NO, NO, N **O, NO!**_

 

You lash out, connect, one of the children cries out. There’s no time for the shock to set in, as you’re being dragged away, thrown out through the door and into the fields, where winter’s already gone and went, and the sun’s settled deep beneath the earth.

 

It’s cold out here. You need to be let back inside, to the fireplace, to the comfort of your nest and the warmth that the soft wood brings together with the embrace of your blankets. You’re already shivering, from both the adrenaline and the cold, while your limbs can’t stop shaking, chilled to the bone. Everything’s fast, going faster. You claw at the door, grow frantic, press your head against the wood to listen, yowl for an answer.

 

And you hear, faintly, through the wood of the door, the crying of a child, the consolation of a parent, feel your own core churn painfully in return, the crawling feeling of envy making its way up slowly. You feel bad, for you hurt someone. You feel worse, since you’re alone.

 

You’re not allowed inside for a while.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

> _Sans is crying. His frame shakes softly with each breath, trembling, sobs badly suppressed as he's spitting out drool, drowning out silent wails. His head’s ducked low, casting large shadows and obscuring his face, hidden further behind a pair of knobbly knees tucked neatly against his chest. Tears continue to fall as you crawl closer. You’re… unsure of what to do. You don’t know how to comfort him, it’s sad._
> 
> _But slowly, his woeful figure raises, head tilting up, up, up as sturdy fingers clasp onto your bones, grasping for support as he pulls himself up. His eyes are wide, lucid but liquid, dripping and dripping, and you stare back, feel the words get stuck in your throat. His features are sharper that they should have been, you remember; shapes familiar, but uncanny, like a– a mirror._
> 
> _“why…” He moans pitifully, hands soaking the fabric of your gowns as his face grows lax, starts sagging. You’re terrified, watch his body soften and from slump, leaving behind large indents where your fingers press down, come to realize he might be falling, might be **dying**. And you? “i…”  You might be… too?_
> 
> _He tips forward, you move to catch him._
> 
> _“don’t…”_
> 
> _\---- falls into you._

* * *

 

Another set of hands descend and drag you down, pin you to the floor and hold your hands. You trash around, kick your feet and swipe your tail, feel that claustrophobic haze intensify, the heat in your throat rise, as the circle closes in and two more hands clamp shut around your muzzle, firm and secure.

 

You try to beat back, snap at the air, throw your whole body into the motion, as you watch through panicked eyes at a world thrown into chaos as your head’s pushed to the ground, held down; mouth remaining sealed, but you feel the fingers move, make room.

 

You’re fighting ‘til you can’t no more, scream. And you know it’s all your fault; they don’t trust you. It's all your own fault.

 

 

 

* * *

  

 

 

> _The world is white. ---- is petting you, his eyes puffy like he’s been crying a lot, but his touch stays calm and gentle. Waves push up the shore in dragging swooshes, take with them glistering pale sand and small black pebbles, leave behind nothing. You curl up further in ----' lap, nuzzle deeper into his touch, breathe._
> 
> _“I’m so tired.” He whispers out loud to you, into the wind. His eyes are cast down, despondent, and you look back up at him. You trill back softly, steadily, almost reminiscent of a purr as the rumble plays soft comforting tunes through the hollow of your chest, vibrations stroking his ribs, aiming to soothe. ---- hums softly, holds you loosely._
> 
> _"Maybe..." He starts, sighs deeply "_ _Never mind. I just... I'm tired, Buster."_
> 
>  
> 
> _The air feels solemn, ----' weight shagging heavily against you, giving your hand a final squeeze. There's an understanding._
> 
>  
> 
> _"It's better this way." He says._
> 
>  
> 
> _..._
> 
>  
> 
> _"Okay."_
> 
> _This is goodbye._
> 
>  

* * *

 

You forget. Like a repressed memory.

 

 

You’re happy.

**Author's Note:**

> You might not be able to tell, but Papyrus’ always been my fav character in the game, which is why the prospect of this ending always saddened me so much. I just want the bros to be happy together, is that too much to ask?


End file.
